


Tethered

by enthugger



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale kind of enjoys being slammed against walls, Crowley kind of really needs a hug, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: Crowley seems to realize how tightly he’s holding on, and he lets go immediately with a flush of something like embarassment on his face, but he doesn’t move away. He balls his hands into fists instead and pushes them against Aziraphale’s chest, a gesture that’s trying it’s hardest to be violent but falls short, tinged in softness, or maybe exhaustion.Only it can’t be that because demons, like angels, don’t need to sleep. They don’t need to breathe either, but Aziraphale is drawing in deep breaths like his life depends on it. In fact, he’s so focused on getting air back into his shattered lungs that it takes him a few moments to realize just how much Crowley is shaking, not the kind of shaking that comes from a body’s reaction to adrenaline, but a bone-deep trembling that Crowley’s eyes are screwed shut against the force of. His fists are clenching and unclenching where they’re still pressed agianst Aziraphale’s chest, like he’s searching desperately for something to hold onto, like he’s something untethered, still falling.





	Tethered

**Author's Note:**

> Based on two tumblr prompts: a hug where one person keeps the other from collapsing and "can you write about Aziraphale liking Crowley slamming him agianst the wall"

Aziraphale has never been patient. It’s a sin, he supposes, like anything else. The ironic thing about it is that what he’s impatient for is a kind of return to normality, to the way things were before. He sees how Crowley looks at him from behind his sunglasses when he thinks Aziraphale isn’t watching, with a sudden panic that he’s always quick to hide behind exasperation. He notices the way Crowley all of a sudden seems to be close and it’s not that he was ever averse to closeness before, but now he feels the casual brushes of fingers as he’s handed a glass, the hand on his back when they cross a road or enter a building, the way Crowley seems to sit just a centimeter closer to him, so their shoulders almost touch.

Aziraphale doesn’t mind it. If anything, it’s a positive change and on its own, it wouldn’t be something he’d complain about. But this new tactility has come with other things that only serve to remind him of just how close they’ve come to losing everything. How close they’ve come to losing each other, is something he would have thought about, he supposed, if he’d ever been inclined to dwell on the past.

Crowley seems determined to discuss every element of their almost-demise, every facet of his experience in heaven, which Aziraphale admits, left Crowley more shaken than he’d seen in a long time. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is desperate for things to get back to normal. It had been his intention, subtly, in a definitely nonmanipulate move, when he invited Crowley back to the bookshop after dinner that evening. And Crowley had agreed, after a bit of convincing and the promise of an old French vintage that Aziraphale figured it was worth miracling for an evening in Crowley’s company.

“I suppose it’s different than when you were here last,” he says, offhand, aiming at light humour as he runs a finger gently along one of the shelves. Crowley’s face darkens, in a way that’s more sinister than any of the attempts at evil Aziraphale has seen from him before.

“It’s a bit more intact, at least,” Crowley replies. He’s taken his glasses off and his eyes are wide abeneath them, rimmed in shadows. He looks lost in a way that Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure how to deal with, so he pushes on, muttering something about a bottle and glasses and how he’ll just be a moment. But as he tries to push past Crowley, where he’s still standing, tense, in the middle of the shop, something between them seems to snap.

Then Crowley’s hands are fisted in his lapels and as he’s slammed back against a bookshelf, Aziraphale can’t help but wince. He spares a moment to make sure the books behind him are safe beacuse he’s only just gotten used to having an eternity again and he doesn’t particularly want to waste it reattaching spines because of Crowley’s carelessness. And speaking of spines, his own is starting to protest as Crowley presses him back more forcefully into the point of a shelf.

He’s closer than Aziraphale realized, breathing in uneven pants and narrowing his eyes so his slit-like pupils seem to take up the entirety of them. Aziraphale could spend years thinking about Crowley’s eyes, but he figures that this might not be the time.

“Really, dear, I’m not sure this is entirely warranted,” he says, tries to keep his voice light, aiming for an evenness that will keep them in a territory that Aziraphale can begin to understand.

“Shut up,” Crowley hisses in his ear - and yes, Aziraphale sees the irony in the description, but it’s not entirely inaccurate.

“I didn’t say anything!” He starts to protest, but Crowley’s hands tighten their grip, his long fingers moving from his lapels around to the sensitive place where Aziraphale’s neck meets his shoulders and Aziraphale suddenly finds it very hard to breathe, in a way that only slightly has to do with his newly constricted airflow.

“Please,” and Crowley’s voice is quieter now, his anger verging on desperation. “Please, stop talking.”

At a loss for anything else to do, Aziraphale shuts up and for a moment, they stand together in relative silence. Aziraphale’s feet are barely touching the ground, the bookshelf and Crowley bearing most of his weight. Aziraphale thinks, not for the first time, that Crowley is stronger than his lanky form appears.

Finally, he’s not sure he can stand it anymore and he raises one hand to tap tentatively against Crowley’s fingers where they’re still practically wrapped around his neck. It’s getting to the point where he can barely breathe. Not that he has to breathe, of course, but it’s a convenience his lungs have grown used to. Breathing comforts him, like hot chocolate, or the smell of old parchment pages, or the sound of footsteps on cobblestoned streets.

Crowley seems to realize how tightly he’s holding on, and he lets go immediately with a flush of something like embarassment on his face, but he doesn’t move away. He balls his hands into fists instead and pushes them against Aziraphale’s chest, a gesture that’s trying it’s hardest to be violent but falls short, tinged in softness, or maybe exhaustion.

Only it can’t be that because demons, like angels, don’t need to sleep. They don’t need to breathe either, but Aziraphale is drawing in deep breaths like his life depends on it. In fact, he’s so focused on getting air back into his shattered lungs that it takes him a few moments to realize just how much Crowley is shaking, not the kind of shaking that comes from a body’s reaction to adrenaline, but a bone-deep trembling that Crowley’s eyes are screwed shut against the force of. His fists are clenching and unclenching where they’re still pressed agianst Aziraphale’s chest, like he’s searching desperately for something to hold onto, like he’s something untethered, still falling.

Slowly, so slowly, as if Crowley is a wounded animal that might startle, Aziraphale brings his hands up from where they’ve been scrabbling awkwardly at his sides for longer than he cares to admit and wraps them around Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley stiffens immediately, going rigit beneath the touch and for a moment, Aziraphale is afraid he’s done something wrong, misread the situation or shown too much of himself like he so often does (soft, he thinks).

But then Crowley all but collapses against him, his whole body curling into Aziraphale with an awkward looking bend in his back, like he’s trying to hide himself away. Startled, Aziraphale tightens his hold.

“Oh, my dear,” he whispers into the space between them. “It’s alright now.”

Crowley shakes his head slightly where it’s pressed into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Angel, last time i was here, you were dead.”

And that shuts Aziraphale up more than anything else that evening. Of course, he hasn’t been back to the bookshop since then. It’s not that Aziraphale forgot, it’s just one of those things that he tries not to think too hard about, but Crowley has clearly been doing enough thinking for both of them because his hands find the bottom of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and he curls his fingers around it and clings.

Aziraphale moves a hand to the back of his head, and when Crowley does nothing to dissuade him, pushes his fingers into the sweaty hair at the base of his neck, stroking lightly through the short strands. He’s never admitted to himself how badly he’s wanted to do this, through all the years and through Crowley’s many ridiculous hairstyles, he’s always assumed it would be softer to the touch than it looks, and he’s not disappointed.

It takes a few minutes for Crowley to settle, or maybe they’re hours, or even years, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind how long it is because he’s suddenly found all the patience in the world. After a while, Crowley turns his head to the side so his nose is pressed into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck and his technically unnecessary breaths feel warm against his skin.

“You said wine?” He asks, so faintly that Aziraphale isn’t sure he would have heard him if they weren’t so close together. And of course, they will drink after this, but there’s something protective in him that doesn’t want to let go quite yet, not when he’s only just figured out what Crowley needs.

“Just a moment longer,” Aziraphale whispers.

He rests his cheek against Crowley’s hair and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing these boys or anything Good Omens so I really hope it turned out ok. Please hmu on [tumblr](https://williamvapespeare.tumblr.com)


End file.
